Who The Hell
by jennytork
Summary: AU Just after Mystery Spot, Sam's mind snaps, forcing the brothers to have to make a few...adjustments. This is the bodyswap that...wasn't.
1. A Shock For Bobby

WHO THE HELL...

CHAPTER ONE

It was the phone call that alerted Bobby that something was seriously wrong. Since reconnecting, they'd never been out of touch for this long. They'd been out of pocket for nearly two months, three in Sam's case, and now out of the blue, Sam called.

Except he didn't sound like Sam. His voice was gruffer, harder. But the words on the voicemail were definitely him.

"Bobby, we need medical care, we're heading your way! Sammy needs you!"

Why in the sam hill did Sam refer to himself in the third person?

It made no sense.

And that meant something was horribly wrong.

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

He was on the porch, Rumsfeld dozing at his feet, when the dog perked up and started barking – his tail wagging at the same time. Bobby blinked at the reaction, then burst into a grin when he heard the throaty rumbling purr of the Impala turning off the road. "Make yourself scarce, boy," he said, scritching the dog's head and watching him take off around the side of the house.

Bobby was carrying his shotgun and when they grew closer, he saw a larger shouldered form behind the wheel. "Sam?" he breathed, amazed that Dean would let Sam drive.

The Impala drew up with a screech of brakes and a cloud of dust and then the engine was off, the door creaked as it opened, and Sam flew out of the driver's seat and dashed around to the passenger side, reaching in and helping his brother out of the shotgun seat.

When they turned toward Bobby, he knew at a glance something was definitely very, _very_ wrong.

'Need a shower in holy water' wrong.

Bobby hadn't seen Sam's hair that short since he was seven years old. He still had bangs, but they were very short and curled along the top of his forehead. His ears were fully exposed, and there was a focussed, nearly insane look in his eye that would have scared the shit out of Bobby.

If the battered leather jacket, jeans and t-shirt so tight they were practically painted on, and bulls-head amulet swinging from his neck hadn't already done that.

Sam was dressed exactly like Dean.

As for Dean himself... Bobby's heart did a funny little squeeze at the sight of him, clearly bleeding from his side. He wore a too-large blue plaid shirt over his jeans, and both it and the light-grey Army surplus jacket were stained with blood. He was leaning heavily against Sam as they walked, and he was gritting his teeth against the pain.

But the clothes weren't the strangest part for Bobby. He couldn't stop staring at Dean's hair. The stick-straight dark-blond hair hit Dean's eyebrows and completely covered his ears, flopping down around his neck. He slowly raised pain-glazed eyes and managed a weak smile. "H-Hey...Bobby...sorry for...droppin' in...like this..."

"How about we save the social graces until your blood's not leakin' out, huh, Sammy?" Sam snarled. "He forgot to duck and the damn bullet's still in him."

Bobby's brain whirled for a second. _Sammy? Sam called DEAN...Sammy?_ Then he nodded. "On the couch."

He followed them in and as soon as Sam laid Dean on the couch, he threw a shot of holy water in Sam's face. Sam closed his eyes against the onslaught, but there was no other reaction.

Bobby nodded and poured another shot of holy water over Dean's wound. No demonic reaction, but he did hiss in pain at a purely human level.

"You wanna explain how you two swi-" Bobby suddenly noticed Dean dragging a finger across his throat, shaking his head violently. "...idjits let this happen?"

"Stupid, _stupid,_" Sam snarled. "We just walked into a store and the robber cold-cocked him with a bullet!"

"Go get the supplies," Bobby ordered. "You know where they are." Sam nodded and went at a quick run, and Bobby bent to help Dean remove his shirts and jacket. "No hospital, huh? Because of who you... look like?"

"Because of who I _am_," Dean corrected, his voice infinitely tired. "I'm Dean Winchester, Bobby. 100% _me_. No soul exchange. I'm me."

Bobby blinked. "Then why-" he reached out and flicked Dean's long bangs by means of finishing that sentence.

"Sam," Dean whispered. "He... He's lost. And if I act like me, it hurts him." His eyes closed. "Tell you what...patch me up and when he's out after, I'll tell you everything."

"Why not now?"

"Cause I'm losing the fight with the sleepies. And he's gonna hover till I'm okay again. After all..." He opened his glazed jade eyes – just a slit – and smiled a small, sad smile. "That's exactly what Dean would _do_, isn't it?"

Bobby squeezed his shoulder as his eyes closed. "Yeah, you would. You big idjit."

Dean huffed a soft laugh as Sam came back at a run, his arms loaded with bandages, tools, and other supplies.

"Let's get that bullet outta your brother," Bobby told him, standing up. "Set that stuff there. I'm gonna need your hands."

Sam nodded. "Just tell me what I gotta do. We gotta get Sammy well."

_Yeah,_Bobby thought. _We sure do. But let's get Dean patched up first._

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

The bullet was out and Dean was sewn up expertly. He'd had an antibiotic shot and several antibiotic pills to take, courtesty of one of Bobby's medic friends.

And he'd been right – Sam _hovered._ He sat by Dean's bed – the one Sam himself had slept in as a boy when they stayed there – and pushed sweaty bangs off his forehead. He talked to him in a low voice, memories of their childhood. Of their father. Of them since Dean came for him at Stanford.

And all from Dean's point of view. Filtered through Sam's mouth.

It was too bizarre to watch.

Dean finally woke, blinked up at Sam, licked his lips and Bobby – watching from the doorway – could almost see the quip forming. But then Dean's eyes widened slightly as they looked at Sam, and his eyes closed for a moment.

When they opened this time, they were full of warm concern and his left hand came up, grasping at his brother's arm. "You...okay, Dean?"

Sam huffed out a laugh. "Am I okay – I'm not the one with a new ventilation shaft."

"Ooh, don't make me laugh...hurts..." But he was chuckling softly. "Go get something to eat, dude. You look exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"Dean." The voice was all little-brother concern. "Seriously. If you wanna help, go get me some broth or something."

"And then go shower," Bobby said from the doorway. "You're ripe, boy."

"Fine, fine." Sam stood. "I feed you and then I shower."

"Flip those," Dean said. "You really need to shower first. Or you might contaminate the broth."

Sam made a disgusted noise, but he gathered his clothes and headed out. "I'll be back with broth in about twenty minutes!"

"Can't wait," Dean said, smiling warmly as Sam exited the room. The smile faded as Bobby came in and sat beside him. "Help me sit up?"

Bobby did so, then said, "He's not here. Explanation time."

Dean took a deep breath. "Remember when Sam vanished for a month?"

"You were frantic. Then you both vanished."

He nodded. "Because Sam had been... he'd been ambushed by a Trickster. He lived for six months – relative time – in a world where I was dead."

Bobby drew in a sharp breath.

"When it was over..." Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. "He was different. Harder. Colder. He'd just..._stare_... at me for hours on end. Then he just – walked out of the hotel room and didn't look back. A month later, he shows up, cool as a cucumber, with a jacket that's a copy of mine and an attitude to match, demands _'his'_ jewelry back and tells me that playtime is over, it's time to get back to work."

Bobby just stared.

"Whenever I'd argue with him and try to tell him that _I'm_ Dean – he'd get horrible headaches. Part of him does seem to realise that he's really Sam and I'm really Dean, but I'm just not sure how to reach it. It took me this long – and getting shot – to convince him to get me here."

"You think I can help?"

He nodded and damn, if those huge green eyes weren't shining with Sam's own hope in them.

"Dean – I know supernatural things. Things that can be fixed and things that can be treated. This... this is _insanity,_ Dean. This is just a mind that has snapped. I don't know how to treat that."

"I've been trying to," Dean said. "I've been acting like Sam and trying to snap him out of it." He took a deep breath. "But dammit, Bobby, it feels good to be _me_ again. Even for a few minutes."

"Wait, you've been with him like this for _how_ long?"

"Two months. Why?"

Bobby took a deep, ragged breath and ran his hand along his mouth and chin. "When'd you decide to grow your hair out?"

"When I realised I'd have to _be_ Sam awhile. Long hair's a Sam thing, so it would just follow that...B-Bobby, why are you lookin' at me like that?"

"Those clothes – they're your size. Not his."

"I know. He got them for me. What the hell are you getting at?"

"Dean - I don't wanna scare you."

"Well, you're doing a hell of job _of_ scarin' me, Bobby!"

"Dean." He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. "You gotta hold onto yourself. You've _gotta_ be Dean."

"B-B-Bobby?" And shit, that was a Sam scared/confused reaction from Dean.

"Dean – two months is more than enough time to get habits established. You're losin' yourself, boy. You're slowly goin' just as mad as Sam is."

Dean's reaction was to lean back on the pillows, go paler than milk, and close his eyes. His left hand came up and shoved the hair off his forehead, tangling in it and tugging slightly like the small pain would help him think. His mouth twitched, going flatter instead of pursing.

Bobby went cold all over. Those were _Sam's_ reactions to emotional pain.

It might already be too late.


	2. Date With The Crossroads Demon

CHAPTER TWO

Bobby got an up close and personal view of what Dean meant once Dean was up and around a few days later.

Sam had begun to retreat out to the yard, and poke about under a few hoods. Inevitably, he would return in a bad mood, frustrated at the world.

After the third or fourth day of this, Dean watched Sam slam into the house and retreat to their bedroom, slamming the door with so much force it made Dean wince. He sat there, frowning uncertainly for a moment, then got up from the table and made his way – not to the bedroom, but outside.

Bobby followed, and found Dean walked over to one of the cars Sam had been poking at. He studied it for a long few moments, then nodded. "I got it." He pulled off the red plaid shirt and set it aside, bending over the engine and working the kind of magic only Dean Winchester could work on a car.

Bobby smiled proudly to see it happen.

Sam came bombing out onto the porch then. "Bobby? Have you seen Sam? I was -" He froze, staring as Dean slowly straightened from the engine and turned to look at him.

Sam went ash-pale. His jaw lowered and he staggered back like he'd been punched. Both hands went to his forehead and he groaned in agony.

"Sam!" Bobby yelled at the same time Dean bellowed, "Dean!" and ran toward him.

Together, they got Sam sitting on the porch, and his hands away from his face. His eyes were huge and fixed on a point in the distance, and his hands were clenching with pain.

Dean pressed his forehead to Sam's temple and talked to him, low and soft, into his ear. Bobby could hear him whisper, "C'mon, that's it. You're okay. I promise you, you're okay. Snap out of it, okay? Just-Just-Just snap out of it. Come back to me. Please." He carded his hand through the dark brown spikes and whispered, "I miss you. G-d, I miss you."

Bobby watched the hazel eyes slowly blink. Slowly lighten with life. He sent up his own silent prayer as Dean kept up the litany.

Slowly, one of the large hands came up. Took hold of Dean's wrist. The head turned until forehead touched forehead. "You back with me?" Dean asked.

"Y-Yeah," Sam said, slowly pulling away. "What the hell was that?"

"Hurt like a vision headache, huh?" Dean asked, a note of hope in his voice and shining in his eyes.

"Yeah, you'd know all about those, huh, Sammy?" Sam asked with a smile, curling a hand around the back of his neck for a moment before standing shakily up. "Shit, I need a drink..."

He wove his way inside and Dean's fists pounded against his thighs. "_Dammit!_" he roared through his clenched teeth.

And Bobby agreed whole-heartedly.

It was the hardest thing he'd had to do in years to stand back and watch the Impala drive away a week later.

With Sam at the wheel and Dean leaning out the shotgun side – in a grey army-issue jacket, with his long hair blowing into his horrified, saddened eyes as he waved an affectionate good-bye.

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

Dean was coming out of the shower two weeks later when it hit him and caused him to stumble.

It was the 30th of April.

Dean only had a day and a night before his deal was due.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and used another on his dripping shaggy hair as he tried to calm his whirling thoughts. What was he going to do? What about Sammy, how was he going to make it-

He stopped and sighed. Of course Sammy would make it. Sammy thought he was _Dean_, after all. And Dean was a survivor.

Wasn't that why Sam had created the Dean persona in the first place? To survive something he saw as unsurvivable?

As a way to survive living without Dean...

Dean froze. He stared at his own eyes in the mirror as it hit him.

Sammy was the way he was... because he couldn't live without Dean any more than Dean could live without him.

"...oh, we are so screwed," he breathed, shaking his head slowly and watching the dripping bangs rearrange themselves into a semblance of order.

"Hey, Sammy, you say somethin'?" Sam called.

Dean padded out of the bathroom, clutching the towel about his hips. "It's April 30."

Sam looked up at him, his face going frighteningly blank. "Yeah," he said in a soft voice. "Yeah – I know."

"What...what are we..."

"Well, first, you're gonna dry off..."

Dean glared at him and grabbed his clothes to the accompaniment of Sam's laughter.

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

"Don't you ever take _anything _seriously?" Dean asked, glaring out the windshield as Sam drove them down the road. "I mean, I—you're not gonna live out the week and you're actin' like it—"

"Look, Sammy," Sam interrupted. "I know it looks bad, but I have no regrets. At all. You're alive – that's all I care about. My little brother's alive and safe and here." One leather-clad shoulder rose in a shrug. "I've done my job. You're safe."

Dean looked at him, eyes huge in horror and shock. Everything Sam had just said had been his own thoughts over the last year of waiting for hell.

Except one. Now, Dean had a _huge_ regret.

Sam wasn't okay. And Dean was going to have to leave him here like this.

How was his confused little brother going to react when the hellhounds took _himself_ instead of the person Sam thought they were going to take?

Dean leaned to the side and braced his elbow on the door, rubbing a suddenly aching head.

"Having a vision over there, Merlin?" Sam asked, a note of concern in his voice.

"Nah," Dean sighed back in return. "Tension and lack of caffeine."

Sam laughed. "One coffee run, comin' right up..."

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

The Impala pulled up at the crossroads and shut off. Sam's jaw worked for a moment as he glared out of the windshield, his hands white-knuckled around the wheel. Then he snarled out, "I can't _believe_ I let you come."

"I don't recall you _letting_ me do anything," Dean said as he got out of the car. "I recall you trying to _drug_ me so I'd stay behind."

"I can't believe you didn't fall for that!" Sam growled as he got out as well. "How in the hell did you not fall for that?"

_Because I know what I would have done. And that was it._ Dean looked around. "She's late."

"We're early," Sam countered. "You in that big of a hurry to get rid of me?"

"No, I'm not. It just surprised me." Dean managed a shaky smile.

"No more surprised than I am," a sultry voice said and Dean and Sam turned to find a demon there. She was red-haired and wore the seemingly requisite black cocktail dress. "I'm surprised you brought your brother, Dean. I had thought this was between us."

They shivered as a howl through the night. Then Sam poke up. "I'm here, isn't that what you wanted?"

"No...I want your brother."

"The deal was with _me!_" Sam roared. "For _his_ life!"

"The deal was with _Dean_," the demon shot back. "And you're _Sam_."

He groaned, staggering back.

"Stop it!" Dean roared. "Stop it, already! You're hurtin' him!" He grabbed Sam's arms and pulled him back to lean across the Impala. "Hey...hey, you okay?"

"My head," Sam groaned.

"I'm sorry, man," Dean said, sliding his hand through Sam's hair. "So sorry. If I had a choice..."

"No...she's takin' me..."

"Awww, this is so touching...but we're wasting time." She snapped her fingers. "Midnight, boys. Bring him."

There was a horrible growl and bark and they both sensed invisible dogs surge forward.

Then there came several pained whimpers and both brothers stared in surprise as the clawed footsteps retreated amid whimpers and whines.

The demon looked as surprised as they were. "What...What happened?" she gasped. "What did you _do_?"

"_They_ didn't do anything," a cultured British voice said and a well-dressed older man appeared in the middle of the crossroads, facing the demon, his hands in his pockets. "_You,_ however, have made a hell of a mess of it."

She hissed, her eyes clicking red. "Crowley."

Crowley turned around and scrutinised the stunned Winchester brothers. "My, my. Who would have thought that one case of insanity would bring this about?"

He turned back to the demon. "The deal you made with Dean Winchester was quite specific. And quite binding."

She nodded, confused.

"In return for his not trying to get out of the deal at all for the term of one year, you would let Sam Winchester live and take Dean Winchester's soul to Hell."

"Yes. That was the deal."

"And it has been kept – by _all_ parties." Crowley tilted his head toward the brothers. "Dean Winchester did not try anything to get out of his deal. At all."

"And the year is up!" the demon snarled. "So why are my hellhounds acting like this?"

"Because the deal was that you can not harm Sam Winchester should Dean Winchester uphold his end. He has." Crowley gestured at them. "So you can _not_ harm Sam Winchester."

"I _know_ that..."

"But, see, what you're missing?" Crowley turned back to her, still pointing at the brothers. "Is that, due to a bout of supernaturally-induced insanity that neither of them asked for or expected - _they are both Sam Winchester._ One has the body. One has the spirit."

Her eyes went huge. "...and I am forbidden to harm _Sam_ Winchester." Her fists clenched. "_Dammit_!"

"Good-bye, precious," Crowley sneered. "We shall discuss this below."

With a shriek born from Hell itself, the demon and hellhounds vanished.

Crowley turned to the Winchesters, who were staring dumbly at him. "Well, what are you still standing here for? You're free. Take off. Unless..." His eyebrow rose. "_You_ wish to make a deal?"

Dean's mouth opened, ready to bargain for Sam's sanity, but Sam grabbed his arm. "Oh, no! No more deals! Not now, not _ever_!" He all but shoved Dean into the car and they drove off quickly, leaving Crowley standing, smirking, in a cloud of dust.

Crowley heaved a long sigh and then looked up. "Well?" he demanded. "Are you satisfied, now? Can I be about my business?"

Two figures shimmered into view. One of them would have immediately been recognised by the Winchesters as the Trickster. The other was taller and had dark curly hair. His hands were jammed into the pockets of an old trenchcoat.

The Trickster smiled at Crowley. "Nice to see you're a demon of your word."

"Yes, well, bad for business if I'm not," he snarled. "Am I free to go?"

"You are," the dark-haired one said and Crowley vanished. Then the dark-haired one turned to look at the Trickster. "When will you restore Sam Winchester's sanity?"

"That's up to him," the Trickster said. "I didn't take it away – he did that all on his own."


	3. Slow Recovery

Dean rolled over in his bed and frowned. He sat up, pushing the hair out of his eyes and blinking at Sam, who was sitting on his bed staring at him rather strangely. "...what?" he asked, his voice still rough from sleep. "What is it?"

Sam's eyes canted toward the clock radio between their beds.

Dean's followed. It had the date on it – nearly exactly four months since the showdown at the crossroads. And the time – eight in the morning.

Dean frowned and turned back to Sam. "What?" he asked gently, getting up and coming to sit beside Sam, not missing how Sam's head turned to follow him, keeping him in sight. He lay a gentle hand on Sam's forearm. "Hey...what's the matter?"

Sam's hand rose. It trembled as calloused fingers touched Dean's forehead, sliding the dark blond hair to the side.

Dean permitted the touch. "C'mon, Dean, you're scarin' me here."

"Dean?" Sam whispered, looking utterly exhausted. "...Dean, your hair...it's too long..."

Hope detonated in Deean's chest and his hand tightened a little. "...Sammy?"

A slow nod. "...feels like I'm just wakin' up...after seven months..."

Dean grabbed him and just held him close. He was shuddering with emotion, and he could feel Sam shuddering as well. They just held each other for a long few moments, then they slowly broke apart. Dean touched his arm. "You... You need to call Bobby."

"And you?" he asked.

"I need a shower," Dean said. "I just woke up."

Sam smiled at him – a full-bore _Sammy_ smile, not the tightly controlled smile he'd smiled for the last seven months. Dean wondered why it fled as soon as he returned it.

It wasn't until he was in the bathroom that he realised he'd returned it with a Sammy-smile of his own.

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

Bobby picked up the phone on the second ring. "Hey, Dean, how's it goin'?"

There was a long pause on the other end, then a tentative, "_Actually... uh, Bobby... it-it's Sam._"

"Sam?" Bobby had to sit down. "..._Sam_? You're _Sam_?"

The huff of laughter was answer enough, but then came the sweetest words he'd heard in years. _"Yeah, Bobby...I'm Sam again."_

"How-How much do you remember?"

_"Bits and pieces. Like waking up from a long dream."_ There was a slight scoff, then his voice filled with disbelief. _"Still not quite sure what crawled on Dean's head and died to give him that pelt, though..."_

Bobby couldn't help it. He started laughing.

Sam's next words held a warm smile. _"Thanks for helpin' us, Bobby. I know it had to have been hard...with me like that."_

"Wasn't just you," Bobby informed him. "Dean's been through the wringer lately, too."

_"Yeah, I know." _He sighed._ "I'm just not sure what to do."_

"Be Sam," Bobby said instantly. "Just be _Sam_. The rest will fall into place."

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

When they were both dressed and had a room-service breakfast, Sam went to check them out while Dean finished loading their duffels into the Impala. 

Sam returned from checking them out – and froze, just staring at the car.

More specifically, at Dean sitting comfortably in the shotgun seat, map already out and splayed across his lap. With that weird long hair and that jacket that _was not his, dammit_, and the concentration on his face – and the fact that he seemed so _comfortable_ in that seat...

Sam felt like he wanted to throw up.

He plastered a smile on and leaned in the window, reaching in and tugging lightly on a lock of hair by Dean's ear. "Hey. You're in the wrong seat."

"No, I'm not." Dean's wide eyes were looking at him like there was something wrong with _him_. "This is where I sit."

"Dean. You drive."

"Yeah, Dean drives. And..." He blinked. "And I'm Dean again!" He broke into a smile that was heartbreaking in its pure joy – and slid over, snapping his fingers.

Sam flipped him the keys and slid into the shotgun seat.

As they drove down the road, it took Sam a moment to figure out what that strange noise Dean was making was.

It was suppressed sobs of relief.

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

At their stop for lunch, they ate the same things. And Dean looked at Sam like something was way off.

Sam had to chase him out of the shotgun seat again.

Supper was eaten at a small diner in a small town in Missouri. Dean ordered first – what Sam would have ordered, and actually what Sam _wanted_.

Sam looked at him with sad eyes, then he met the waitress's eyes and quite deliberately ordered a bacon cheeseburger with an order of fries – heavy on the ketchup – and extra onions. With a chocolate milkshake and black coffee.

Dean let out this sigh that seemed to come from his toes and lowered his head, shaking it slightly. As if he'd been expecting this. He looked out the window, his jaw clenching and unclenching, dragging a hand through his long hair and leaning his head against the window – visibly trying to push the agitation down.

Sam's heart clenched as he realised Dean thought he'd slid back into insanity.

He didn't say a word, just waited until their orders came. The waitress remembered who'd ordered what, and set them down accordingly.

But as she moved off, Sam reached over and lifted the grilled chicken salad, pulling it to his own place as he slid the cheeseburger meal over to Dean.

Dean's expression was truly priceless. Shock and surprise and delight and realisation and everything all at the same time. "...Sammy?" he whispered.

Sam smiled and shrugged. "It's not right, you know. Your body's gonna go into shock if you keep eating all this healthy food."

Dean just stared at the burger and shake. "...I've not had a burger in six months...last time I tried, you had an attack."

"An attack?"

He nodded, eyes still on the food. "Every time I acted like me – like _Dean_ - you'd get horrible pains in your head and just stare. Like you were having a seizure. I had to give up nearly everything... just to keep you okay."

Sam reached over and touched his wrist, frowning as his fingers encountered only one leather band. "I'm okay now. Go ahead. I'll be fine."

Dean started with a fry – something they both ate. As he worked on those, Sam ran his hands surreptitiously over his own wrists – and he located the missing leather band. He slid it off and captured Dean's wrist, putting it back where it belonged.

Dean looked at it, then his eyes lingered on the amulet still swinging from Sam's neck. Sam moved to take it off, and Dean captured his hand. "No."

"No?"

"It's not been...off your neck... for over half a year. It's... " He shrugged. "You're not ...I'm still worried, okay?"

"That I'm...not myself yet."

Dean nodded, his lips flattening instead of pursing with his emotions.

Sam flinched at his own mannerism. "Dean...dude...honestly, _I'm_ worried about _you_. You're the one who grew out his hair." Dean's hand rose to touch it, and Sam went on. "You're the one who flinches when I try to hand you your jacket. You're the one who keeps getting in the shotgun seat and orders salads and isn't even wearing your own jewelry. I mean, even your voice is shifted and you've got this innocent face now and – dude. Seriously. You're scarin' the _hell_ outta me."

"It takes one month to establish a habit," Dean said, looking down at his burger and picking at the bun. "Did you know that? One month."

"Dean..."

"Know how long I've had to be Sam Winchester?" Dean asked, looking up at him with wide jade eyes full of emotion that Sam couldn't read. "Do you? Seven months, Sammy. _Seven._"

Sam recoiled as if slapped, realising suddenly what Dean was telling him. "...it's...habit."

"Yeah. All of it. And I'm scarin' you – hell, Sammy, I'm scarin' _myself_ here. I don't know what of this I can shake and what I can't."

"I know where to start," Sam said, his voice soft and gentle.

"Then tell me, please – because I don't have a freakin' _clue!_"

Sam smiled and nudged his leg under the table. "Eat your burger, Dean."

Dean blinked at him – then smiled.

And did.

SPN WTH SPN WTH SPN

They took care of Dean's "Sammy-ness" like he had informed Sam he had built it up.

Focusing on one detail at a time, until it was perfect.

Movement. Mannerisms. Turns of phrases. All went away. Slowly. Painfully.

At times, it was like Dean was using "Sammy" the same way Sam had used "Dean" – to deal with emotionally painful things.

But Sam was patient and Dean truly did want to be himself again – 100% in mind as well as body – and so they worked through each and every roadblock.

One of the last things that they reversed were their clothes. Dean told him to keep the leather jacket – as it was one that Sam had bought and it was too large for Dean. Dean's own was in the trunk, wrapped in a duffel.

He had snuck and worn it several times over the last few months, keeping it soft and able to be worn in case this ever ended.

Now that it had, and now that most of the traces of "Sammy" were gone, Dean began to wear it again.

Sam got the shotgun seat all to himself again. And it had rarely felt so good.

Even if Dean was suddenly more equal-oppourtunity about letting him drive. And that didn't seem to be going away any time soon.

That was one thing, though, that Sam didn't really mind had changed.

Sam had come out of this ordeal a little changed as well. Their hustlings were now two-man affairs. And more than once they'd work two bars at once. All those months of thinking he was Dean had apparently left him with a con-man's brain.

And all those months of pretending to be Sam had given Dean a baby-faced innocent look that people tended to grossly underestimate.

Their hustles had once been in the hundreds of dollars. Now, combined, they would usually bring in a thousand or more. So they didn't have to do it as often, and they could afford better equipment.

Slowly, they rebuilt their wardrobes again. They could wear each other's t-shirts and jackets, but they rebuilt their "personal-touch" clothes in the correct sizes this time.

Sam had supplied the gasoline and salt for Dean's burning the garish button-downs, though he did hang onto a few of the plaids. And how he had managed to sneak a Led Zeppelin shirt past Sam's attacks was a secret Dean was not sharing.

Sam realised Dean was nearly back to himself when he began to use Sam's middle name – Francis – when annoyed or amused. So he began to play along, using Dean's middle name and upping the ante by using the version of it he'd use if Dean was little – Johnny – when _he_ was annoyed or amused with Dean.

It rarely failed to make Dean smile, even just a quirk of the lips that had begun to purse again instead of flatten.

Dean hadn't gotten much sleep the night before and he was silently picking his way through a microwaved burrito that was going to be breakfast. Sam noticed this and sat down beside him. "Wanna go get some real food? The diner across town has killer pancakes."

"Blueberry?" Dean perked up.

Sam no longer winced when Dean expressed a preference for things the way Sam would like them. A few of his culinary choices had become actual enjoyments instead of 'gotta-be-Sam' things. "Yeah, blueberry. With blueberry syrup."

"Dude, we are _so_ there," Dean said, dumping his meager meal into the trash can. "Bet they've got that sausage that's all greasy and messy and _good_, too."

And that, at least, was pure Dean. Sam laughed. "I'm gonna stick to the eggs and pancakes."

"Hey – order the sausage too and I'll 'steal' it off your plate!"

"Only if you do the same with the eggs."

"Deal!" He picked up his leather jacket and shrugged it on, his right hand automatically coming up and brushing the ends of his dark-blond hair out of the collar. "Uh...mind drivin'?"

"After last night? You woke me up twice tossin' and turnin'. I thought I'd have to get in bed with you and hold you down!"

Dean snickered and tossed Sam the keys.

"One more thing before we go." Sam walked over and drew the amulet off his own neck, smiling as the cord caught for a second on the ends of his own regrowing hair. He drew it over Dean's head, and Dean smiled down at it as Sam lifted Dean's hair free of the cord in back before stepping back.

"You're sure," Dean said with a slight tilt to his head. "You're not gonna demand it back or—"

"I'm sure. It's time. Past time, really." He jerked his head toward the door. "Ready to go eat?"

"Beyond ready," Dean said, moving toward the door.

As he passed, Sam reached out and ran his fingers through the straight blond strands that kissed the top of the leather jacket's collar. "Hey, Johnny, when are you gonna man up and get that mop cut? How in the hell do you manage to see, anyway?"

Dean turned, blinking at the 'older-brother' tease. Then, recognising it to _be_ a tease, he very deliberately smiled the widest grin he could and tilted his head back, swiping the bangs out of his eyes.

"Oh, I dunno, Francis," he said with a light note in his voice. "After awhile, you kind'a get used to it."

_Missing Scene To Follow..._


	4. Missing Scene  The Little Details

_TWO WEEKS IN..._

Dean frowned into the mirror, looking down at himself and frowning even deeper. He didn't even look like himself any more.

From the waist down, he wore his own clothes – because Sam's wouldn't fit him at all. But from the waist up, everything he had on was Sammy's. Dark blue t-shirt with the white collar. Light blue plaid shirt. And he'd just pulled on a light green army-issue jacket that hit the middle of the backs of his hands.

He couldn't even use his own hair products any more. That was a 'Dean thing', and it caused Sammy so much pain that he couldn't bear it. So he'd stopped using the gel that spiked and darkened his hair.

It was back to its normal dark blond, and without the spikes it curved slightly onto his forehead and made him look a few years younger than he really was.

Dean shivered.

He just hoped this was going to be over soon. Struggling to do every little thing the way Sammy would was giving him a headache.

He looked back in the mirror and sighed. He didn't even look like Dean anymore.

"Hey!" Sam rapped on the doorframe and looked in. Dean had learned to control his reactions at seeing Sam's newly-cut spiked dark hair and the clothing that was an exact duplicate of his, down to the amulet he'd removed from Dean's neck when he returned, though the clothing was in a larger size. "You beautiful yet, Francis?"

_Sam's middle name. He's annoyed or amused,_ Dean thought. _By that expression, it's amused._ He managed to scoff like Sammy would normally have and pitched his voice a little higher. "Can't really mess with perfection, can you?"

Sam winced, but that sounded enough like a tease that it didn't fully trip the pain. "We're ready to bug outta here. So get a move on, bitch!" He slapped the doorframe with the palm of his hand and retreated.

But Dean froze, eyes huge. _Bitch?_

"Hey, Sammy! You comin'?"

Dean swallowed hard and managed to keep his voice from reflecting the shocked grief. "Yeah, whatever – _jerk!_"


End file.
